


Lion-Hearted

by bethfury



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfury/pseuds/bethfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm taught her to be strong but to practice forgiveness; a forest ritual to say goodbye to the departed. Following the events of Dragon Age 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lion-Hearted

Their feet would dance across the forest floor, when they were small and positive the only static feeling in their life would be the pounding of their heart beneath their chests. Little legs would fly across the fallen leaves and grass, bare-footed and streaked with mud their mom would complain about later in the day.   
  
Bethany would giggle a high pitched squeal as their father moved in on them all, growling with his hands held high in mock claws.Carver would grab Hawke’s hand to escape and they would run faster towards the creek, the trickle of water guiding their game of tag further along into the woods.   
  
They would be tip-toeing across smooth river rocks by the time he would find them, Bethany perched on his shoulders with her arm outstretched to cheer him on.  Carver and Hawke would find a boulder or a fallen tree trunk, holding hands and shushing each other as Malcolm would search around the forest floor. Bethany’s tiny voice would grow louder as she ordered him to check each bush, “Let’s go werewolf! Let’s find them!”    
  
Malcolm would respond with a questioning growl that would inevitably send Carver into giggles. Hawke would take the chance to escape, her cape fluttering behind her as she moved towards the clearing where their small cabin stood. Leandra would eventually hear the commotion coming towards the house, “Quickly! Before that werewolf gets you!”   
  
He always let her get to the door before gathering her up in his arms, spinning her in a tight circle as they would both laugh.   
  
“Never going to let me catch you, are you?” he’d ask in a low voice that made her know his question was only for the two of them.   
  
She would kiss his cheek, his beard tickling her, “Never ever, I run too fast.”   
  
“You are my brave little lion-heart,” he would laugh, hugging her tighter.    
  
The rest of the party had split off quickly after Kirkwall with Varric first, taking leave via a note left by the fire. Aveline followed with a tearful confession that she couldn’t be responsible for Hawke losing anyone else, but that she could never travel with Anders again. Fenris departed with Isabela and Merrill tried to stay before leaving in the first city they encountered, falling in with the crowd at a market. Soon enough their camp was empty besides the Champion and the fugitive, making plans for a nebulous future that changed and shifted depending on Justice’s mood.    
  
Hawke acts out her memories of lazy afternoons, denying their current situation in naps and dips in the river. She draws lines on her cheeks with berries, remembering the first time Bethany ran back to their home announcing that a Dalish trader had come through the village with tattoos across her face. She gathers flowers and braids them into a crown, left sitting on Anders’ head as he sleeps long through the morning and the sun sends shadows filtering through their tent.    
  
He cries more than she does and she listens more than she ever expected possible. She searches for a part of her heart to hate him, but it never comes. He heals her scrapes from the bramblebush she fell into and cleans the fish she caught from the stream. Justice stays buried most days and she knows it is only Anders when he kisses her before they fall asleep   
  
But when he finally decides one day to smile, an honest smile not tinged with the regret that hung heavy around his neck, she knows that it has come time for them to say a proper goodbye to everyone.   
  
As she stands now, toes gripping the downy moss beneath her, Hawke can still find herself searching for her father’s voice to escape from behind a tree or for Bethany’s giggle to erupt behind her. But it is just her silence and Anders’ chanting and the familiar sound of nightingales singing to each other through the coming darkness.     
  
Anders finishes casting a ward around them as she counts the lightning bugs sparkling through the canopy. He catches her eyes and the words that fall from his mouth sound more like Malcolm than Justice, more like her past than her future.    
  
“Are you ready Love?” he asks, makeshift altar decorated with Andraste’s Grace and a fire-singed page of the Chant, smuggled away in Hawke’s pocket from Kirkwall.   
  
She knows that he is her future and she knows his warning was true. But he never remembers her childhood of shacks across the countryside and last-minute trips to escape from the Chantry fast approaching.   
  
She nods before redirecting, “Are you ready?”   
  
“I have everything set up, I’ve cast the ward, I think we’re okay to start,” Anders explains before her face falls slightly. He opens his arms to her and on tip-toes, she buries her face in his neck.   
  
“That’s not what you meant,” he answers her silent question, asked by her grasp on him tightening.  Warm tears gather against his skin and smear the red and purple markings dashed across her cheeks.   
  
But as soon as she had started, the tears were gone and her eyes returned to their cornflower clarity. It was a game she would play with Carver and Bethany whenever the sound of clanking armor approached their door and Leandra would tuck them in the hidden space beneath the floorboard. Who could stay quiet, who could stop crying, and who could stay most still as the footsteps carried on overhead.    
  
“By the Maker, you are perfect,” he runs a finger over her cheek, the berry’s trail slick against the pink of her skin.   
  
“And you love hyperbole,” she breaks his gaze, lowering her chin to wipe away the remnants of her tears.   
  
He reaches over again, tracing the line of her jaw as she presses into his palm, “I know I haven’t earned back your trust, but I promised you, I will say nothing but the truth to you for the rest of my days.”   
  
“Are you ready?” she asks again, removing her staff from her back to hold in her hands.    
  
Anders shakes his head, “I am not sure I ever will be, but we need this.”   
  
Hawke hadn’t lost many people in her life before Kirkwall. It wasn’t due to good luck but because it is hard to build relationships when you can’t tell people your real name. But her father had led them through a simple ritual each year to say goodbye to the extended family she never knew and thank you to the Maker for protecting them at his side.    
  
Bethany had led them the year he died until her sobs overtook her and Hawke stepped in with steady voice and clear intention. Leandra and Carver had lit their way with torches and they sang together the songs Malcolm had taught them as children. Songs learned from the mates aboard a pirate ship he had traded healing for passage. Ballads taught by an elven assassin who had accompanied him on several missions and had always managed to find him when they were children.    
  
The songs were still so clear in her head but, without Bethany’s voice beside hers, none of them came right.    
  
“How do we start?” he asks when the moon was finally risen over over the hill and they had washed their hands in rituals. He had poured the cool water over her palms, lingering on the base of her wrist with a calloused thumb. She had rubbed them together to remove the blood that remained on her skin long after battle.   
  
“Father always told us that once a year we could focus together to thin the barrier to the Fade,” she explains, staring into the sky, “He said that we could send our thoughts through to reach those who had departed. We would start by announcing who we are trying to reach.”   
  
“I’m not apologizing,” Justice growls from behind her, the timbre of his voice signaling the change.   
  
She lets a deep breath fill her chest without turning, her pause punctuating the growing noise of the woods at night.   
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she replies finally, reaching a hand out behind her, “It would be selfish to make any of them listen to something meant to appease your guilt.”   
  
Another deep breath passes before he takes her hand, the magic charged between them.   
  
“Who are we trying to reach?” he looks to her for guidance.   
  
A spark of energy betrays her attempt at stoicism, “Anyone who we failed.”   
  
“Who did you fail?” he asks.   
  
“I failed my family, my Father expected me to protect them,” she starts her list, the names coming faster as she continues, “I failed our friends, I couldn’t be what they needed.”   
  
He opens his mouth to stop her before she drops his hand to turn and face him.   
  
“I failed you and, as a result, I failed Kirkwall,” she finishes, “All of this, all of this is my failure.”   
  
His hand goes out to embrace her, before she dodges away from him, the air around her charged in defense.   
  
“Hawke.”   
  
He says her name and she tumbles into him, his hand twined through her hair, clutching her shaking form against his chest.   
  
“You are the first person who has never failed me,” his voice is a pledge and a promise, “You never failed any of us.”   
  
“I failed my father,” she starts to back away before crashing back against him, “He needed me to protect them.”   
  
Lowering her to the ground and brushing the hair from her face, she allows herself to slow her breathing again and rest her head in his lap.   
  
“Hawke, please tell me more about your father?” he asks tentatively, her body first tensing before relaxing further into the memories.   
  
“He loved the forest and he loved books,” she smiles, Anders’ hand gliding over her hair, “He would help anyone that came to our door and he loved his family fiercely. He loved Mother so much, anytime he arrived home he would sweep her into his arms first.”   
  
“Tell me more,” he prods, feeling her returning back to him again.   
  
“He would call Bethany ‘Dove’ and he would dance with her around the cabin,” Hawke laughs at her tiny form spinning him in front of the hearth, “He called Carver ‘his little soldier’ and would have sword fights with him that he would always let Carver win.”   
  
“He sounds like a very great man,” he laughs with her, “What did he call you?”   
  
She rose up on her hands, turning to face him again, “I was his lion-hearted little girl, and he was my hero.”   
  
“You do have the heart of a lion,” his hand resting against her chest, “It is brave and loyal and makes you my hero.”   
  
Her hand covers his, “It is your heart now.”   
  
“Is this the ritual?” Anders asks and he could swear her heart quickened, “I wanted to tell her that I don’t regret what I did, but I do regret the cost. I will always regret the cost and I wanted things to be different.”   
  
She nods, his words loosening the past bound tight around her heart, “I think they heard us. I think they know.”   
  
He stands up beside the fire again, offering her a hand, “Are you ready to leave in the morning now?”   
“One last thing,” she holds a finger up, running over to her sack before returning with a bottle, “Bodhan had left it for me at the estate, rare Dwarven mead.”   
  
His eyes widen, “How does this relate to the ritual? Also, how long have you been holding out on me?”   
  
“The second part of the ritual was to celebrate their memory,” she uncorks it, taking a quick sip, “We drink to those who have departed us and sing songs in their memories.”   
  
“I don’t know many songs,” he takes the bottle from her to join her in the toast.   
  
She wraps an arm around his waist, resting against his shoulder, “That’s okay, my father taught me a few. Just try and follow along.”


End file.
